The Love That Prevailed

by Frank Frankfort Moore

CHAPTER III

Life did not seem to be strenuous in the valley of the Lana, seven miles from the fishing village of Porthawn, and thirty from Falmouth, when the eighteenth century still wanted more than ten years of completing its first half. To be sure, the high road to Plymouth was not so very far away, and coaches with passengers and luggage flew daily across the little bridge of the Lana at the rate sometimes of as much as nine miles an hour; and the consciousness of this made the people of the village of Ruthallion think rather well of themselves—so at least the dwellers in the more remote parts of the region were accustomed to affirm. The generous were ready to allow that the most humble-minded of people would think well of themselves if they were so favourably situated in regard to the great world as to be able to get news from London only a few days old, simply by waiting at the turn of the Plymouth road until a coach came up.

But of this privilege the people of that most scattered of all Cornish villages, Ruthallion, did not avail themselves to any marked extent, except upon occasions of great national importance; such as the achievement of a victory by King George's army in the Low Countries, or by the King's ships in the West Indies. In the latter case the news usually came from the Plymouth side of the high road. For the sober discussion of such news in all its bearings, it was understood that the Lana Mill, situated as it was in the valley within a few hundred yards of the village, and having a little causeway off the Porthawn road all to itself, occupied a most favourable position. There was no inn with a well-lighted bar-parlour within four miles of the place, and the miller was hospitable. He was said to be the inheritor of an important secret in regard to the making of cider, and it was no secret that his autumnal brew had a flavour that was unsurpassed by any cider produced in Cornwall, or (as some people said) in the very apple-core of Devonshire itself.

Miller Pendelly was known to be a warm man in more senses than one. He had not only a considerable amount of property apart from the mill, which the unfailing waters of the Lana fed; he was a warm-hearted man, though one of the most discreet that could be imagined. When it was a charity to give, he gave freely, but he showed himself to be well aware of the fact that sometimes charity consists in withholding one's hand. He was not a man that could be easily imposed upon; though, like all shrewd people, he allowed three or four ne'er-do-wells to borrow from him—once. He talked of every such case with great bitterness on his tongue, but with a twinkle in his eye that assured his confidants that he knew what he was about. To rid the neighbourhood of an idle youth who was robbing an easy-going father, was surely worth the disbursement of five guineas; and the expatriation of a hard-drinking husband was not dear at six.

He, himself, was a good husband to a good wife, and the father of a girl, who, though well favoured, was discreet—a girl who loved her home and all it contained better than she did any possible lover.

The miller's friends were just equal in number to the inhabitants of the valley and of the villages of Porthawn and Ruthallion. Even the mother of the worthless youth who had disappeared with the five guineas, and the wife of the bibulous husband who had not returned after contracting his loan of six, became, in the course of time, his friends, and almost forgave him for his exercise of generosity. But among his neighbours there were none whom he met on such friendly terms as those to whom he turned with a side-nod of his head when the girls had gone.

“They may spare their breath who would tell me that the ill-favoured ones are the best daughters,” said he.

“I'll not be the first to advance that doctrine to the father of Susan Pendelly,” said the blacksmith.

The miller laughed.

“Sue was not in my thought,” he cried—“at least not when I spoke, though thinking of her now only makes me stronger in my opinion.'Twas the sight of t'other lass. Merry she be and with a sharp enough tongue, but was there ever a better daughter than Nelly Polwhele, tell me that, Hal?”